Page 30 of Sinful Desires (Sinful #4)

Chapter

Twenty-Three

“I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.”

― S.E. Hinton

Scarlett

“Perfect, Scarlett! Madre mía , you look insane. A little more to the right?…?now let the towel slip off your shoulder, just a touch. Yes, that’s it!” Lucía Martínez shouted over the hum of the lights, the camera’s flashes searing into my eyes.

Her assistant, Gloría, angled the fan lower. Cold air licked up my body, making the towel cling tighter. My hair whipped around my face like it had a mind of its own.

Lucía was one of the most famous photographers of the last twenty years. She only shot two people a year for Harper Magazine’s front cover, and every celebrity from here to hell clawed their way through PR chains just to get picked.

Her concept was raw beauty , an effortless queen just out of bed. Just a towel. Natural hair.

Luckily, I’d spent three hours yesterday with Victoria getting my skin worked over like a spoiled peach. Facial, mask, steam, extractions, and a therapist-level pep talk.

Because being half naked and bare faced in front of a camera? That’s not effortless. That’s guts and lighting.

The backdrop was plain white. I sat on a barstool designed by someone who’d never had an ass.

Lucía only allowed two people in the room: her assistant, and a guest of my choosing.

I could’ve picked anyone. But after last week? After the silence, the stares, and the fact that he’d been acting like I didn’t exist?

I wanted LeRoy’s attention on me.

So, I’d said I felt weak. Claimed low iron. Maybe I’d faint. Better have security nearby just in case I hit the tile.

He hadn’t said a word when I’d walked out in nothing but a towel, skin still damp, lips bare. Stared in silence. He hadn’t looked away in an hour.

Perfect.

“ Estás divina , carino ! Now we’re going to tie the towel lower on your hips and do a semi-topless shot?—”

A noise came from across the room.

LeRoy.

He shifted in his chair like it had suddenly grown spikes, stood halfway, and started inspecting the windows. Which were closed. And spotless. And absolutely not in need of his attention.

“Okay, so you’ll press your hand here,” she said, gesturing to my chest, “just enough to cover. Gloría, kill the fan. Fix her hair so it falls across, but keep it sexy, messy.”

Gloría stepped in, muttering about angles and shadows.

“Please turn back to us, carino , so I can help lower the towel.”

I did what I was told. I got up, turning slowly. Her hand found the front of the towel, and I let it go without a word. My hands came up to cover my chest while she adjusted it, pulling the fabric low around my hips and tying it like she was wrapping a gift.

She spun me back around, her fingers in my hair, fluffing it.

The room’s tension was palpable, all emanating from one large, repressed, and unfortunately mute Frenchman who’d been trying not to eye-fuck me to death for the past forty-five minutes.

Poor thing. Must have been exhausting trying to act unbothered when my towel was practically begging to fall.

“ Perfecto! You can sit now. ”

I sat. Not exactly how Lucía had asked, but close enough. The towel might have ridden a little lower; my back perhaps arched a bit more.

Sue me.

She told me to close my eyes, then open them. Smile. Don’t. Be sexy. Be bored. Be high on nothing.

I gave her all of it. For thirty minutes straight, I put on a show. Every now and then, a flicker. A brief break between poses. And without fail, they always found him.

Each time they did, I swore my nipples got harder under my palm.

I hadn’t slept since the club. Not properly. Not when I’d known he was just down the hall. A few doors away. Close enough to hear the bed creak, close enough to hear my breath when I thought about him.

How he’d kissed me. How he’d touched me, like he hadn’t known if he wanted to fuck me or break me.

And the French. Jesus.

The next morning, after we’d gotten back home, we’d had to leave for some board meeting about my label. I’d hoped— stupidly, I know—that he’d say something. Just a word. A look. Anything .

But he’d stayed quiet.

He sat in that car like he hadn’t made me come twelve hours earlier. When he helped me out, I grabbed his hand. He held it too tightly. Then he let go, like touching me made him sick. He said something into his earpiece, nodded once, and motioned me forward.

I walked; he followed.

The silence was painful, so I decided to make him pay.

He’d banned me from sleeping with Jonathan, which was rich, considering he was the reason I was so goddamn desperate for sex in the first place.

I didn’t want Jonathan. I ached for Théo LeRoy, deep between my legs, breaking every rule he swore to follow.

But since I couldn’t have that, I’d picked the next best sin.

Jonathan Peers was pop’s golden boy, with a tongue so talented it practically had its own record deal. Girls said it was divine. That his mouth alone could make you believe in God.

So, if anyone could exorcise the sex-obsessed little demon in me, I figured it was the guy invited to events just because his oral game was stronger than most men’s careers.

I thought maybe if I let someone else worship me for a night, I’d stop fantasizing about what it would feel like to be fucked by the man who was paid to protect me, not ruin me.

I was wrong.

Because when I danced on Jonathan, grinding against him, his hands locked on my hips, my eyes found him .

LeRoy.

He’d sat a few steps away, drink raised to his mouth. Eyes fixed, jaw tight, knuckles pressed hard to the glass.

I was flushed with desire, breathless from the friction and the weight of his gaze.

Jonathan leaned in, voice low and filthy, and I let my head fall back, eyes closed.

But it wasn’t Jonathan I pictured. It was the man across the room.

The one who never touched me, but owned every fucked-up thought in my head.

What I hadn’t expected was the punch. Quick. Brutal. Jonathan had hit the floor. LeRoy had followed me to the VIP suite and ground against me, dragging the heat between my legs up to my throat.

And now he was acting like it never happened.

Guess the bastard still didn’t know me.

He called me a brat? Fine. I would remind him what that actually looked like.

“ Gracias , preciosa . The pictures are absolutely perfect. We have to run, I have another meeting,” Lucía said as she clicked off her camera.

Her assistant swept in, scooping up the laptop and stuffing everything into their bag.

“I’ll send the selects to your assistant and Victoria for approval. Adiós !”

“Thank you again, Lucía. It was an honor working with you,” I said, my voice bright and sugary as they walked out. The second the door clicked shut, the sweetness drained.

Now it was just me, LeRoy, and a towel hanging dangerously low on my hips.

A slow smile bloomed across my face. I adjusted my grip, cupping my bare chest with both hands. Then I let out a soft groan, tilting my head back, eyes fluttering shut.

“Mmm?…?I think I need help,” I murmured. “My head’s pounding. Could you walk me back to the dressing room, please?” I opened my eyes and looked at him.

His fingers gripped the top edge of his bulletproof vest, knuckles taut, hands trembling slightly. His eyes dropped.

They traced my fingers, the swell of my breasts pressed high against my bare stomach, my skin flushed and exposed, the towel clinging low to my hips.

His gaze dragged lower. Exposed thighs. Ankles. Bare feet pressed to cold tile.

His jaw flexed. The muscle jumped once. Then he moved, his boots closing the space between us one heavy step at a time.

I remained still, lips parted, breath shallow—allowing him to take me in, to wonder if the towel would fall if I moved just right.

“Let’s go.”

I took a small step, let my knee soften just enough, and tilted to the side with a soft, breathy sigh. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Helpless, on purpose.

His hands were on me in a second. Rough. Tight. Fingers biting into my shoulders. “Fuck. You good, Miss Harper?”

I groaned faintly, tilting my head toward him, my hair brushing his arm. “Think you need to carry me,” I whispered. “Might pass out. Skipped breakfast.”

A total lie.

I’d inhaled a full bag of Reese’s and drowned it in apple juice this morning. But he didn’t need to know that.

He sighed, bent, and scooped me up. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my nails grazing the back of it.

“Thank you, soldier,” I murmured, mouth close to his ear.

His eyes stared straight ahead as he took long strides to the dressing room. He kicked the door open with his foot, stepped inside, and set me down.

His hands dropped, but his eyes stayed above my head. Anywhere but where I wanted them.

So I fixed that.

Rolling my hips once, I let the towel slide to the floor, then allowed my arms to fall to my sides, breasts tight and heavy.

“Could you close the door?” I said sweetly. “I’d hate for the breeze to make me sick.”

His eyes met mine coldly, and he didn’t even glance below my collarbone.

I wasn’t that heartless. I was giving him a choice. Walk out and shut the door behind you—or shut it and stay.

He scoffed under his breath, turning toward the door. My pulse jumped. I watched him grab the handle, watched his fingers close around it. The door clicked shut. Then came the lock.

The sound alone made my thighs press together.

“C e n’est pas le feu qui me fait peur. C’est ce que je deviens quand il me touche ,” he said, barely above a whisper, hand still resting on the knob. He said it like a confession.

I tilted my head. “What does that mean?”

He turned slowly. His back pressed to the door, eyes dragging over me one inch at a time. By the time they reached my chest, my nipples were already hard. When they dropped lower , I felt my legs shake.

“What do you want from me, Miss Harper?”

My hands traced up my sides slowly, until they cupped my breasts. I rolled a fingertip over one nipple, not breaking eye contact. “Take a wild guess, soldier.”